Chloe Burns

heart eyes heart tits


love poem for the boy who

let me eat him.

love poem for the boy who let me pour honey on his hair and

comb it out, let me peel the candy wax off his lips

while we were kissing.

love poem for the boy who put my picture in his locker, who said he didn’t mind

if he bled. hello, boy,

i love u. hello boy, i can still feel u

all over my body like icing.

u had me in ur small bed like a

birdhouse, had me like a bird watcher has

the time he saw the babyblue owlet in

california, had me like a small fruit

sweet with the vry start of spring.

this is a love poem for you: boy who

loved me full of moons and heart emojis.

a blessing: may u always

glow like the light-up jewels in princess wands, sing like flowers bursting their way

out of the warm clouded garden, love

like every day is the 1st day of something

u’ve been waiting

a long long time for.



making me wait


in the hot tub, for a text back, in the time between

the forest behind your house and the invention of

facebook. my fingers have always been so

pricked and pulled over that i didn’t know what a hangnail was

until i was sixteen. for me they were a constant. same goes for childhood,

imagination, alcoholism, and anxiety.

like you’re in the woods, somewhere, and you can tell

that there’s something important very close by, by the way

everything’s glowing. you have to move slowly. you have to

pretend you’re not at all interested in reaching it: work inwards

in a spiral. write nonsense to distract the glowing thing

that lives in your fingertips, or just under

your skin. swimming in your body like you’re an aquarium.

boys call me electric, boys call me cruel. for a long time before i knew

i was suicidal i thought i just understood. same goes for girls.

same goes for love.

the dolphin on my laptop is named partricia. the tattoo

on my shoulder is named marigold. my baby

will be named june. my lover’s name is maclean, and he is made of

marigolds, too. this is not a coincidence.

maybe this is about writing: how, sometimes, poems come

fast and hard like touching yourself on a summer night full of violet.

and how sometimes they roll in front of you like the

yarn in the minotaur’s home, twisting so that you can’t see

what kind of monster you’re intruding upon. they start somewhere

and end up somewhere else. like airplanes, like

relationships. dear abby, what do i do when i

can’t find myself in my own body? dear abby i’m out of wifi, pills, and

food, and how can i make someone love me?

outside, the weather is talking to me, teaching me a language

that is a whole book of poems. they live inside my body,

inside the aquarium, with the fish. i don’t care about my jobs,

i don’t care about school, i don’t care about

the things adults talk about when they’re catching up and i’m

sitting there, tearing at my nails. i mean, i’m glad you’re back.

i mean, the fish in my aquarium body flit around

and around like the moon, like a whole solar system, their small mouths

opening and closing. i mean, this is the way

it’s always been, for me. waiting and waiting and

digging my nails into my palms.


Chloe Burns’ work has most recently appeared in baldhip magazine, text lit mag, echolocation, and The Chappess Zine.

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